2. CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
KATIE
I blink rapidly, honest-to-God hoping I’m trapped in some kind of 13 Going on 30 body-switch dream. Nope. I am in my childhood bedroom. My gaze bounces between the pastel purple lilac wallpaper, the matching comforter, and the identical curtains (okay, Mom, it was a phase) . There’s a box of unfinished wedding invitations staring me in the face, and it’s a harsh reminder that this is, undeniably, present day.
My phone buzzes. Again. Then again.
Group Chat: CPK Forever
Petra: Quick poll. Who wants to burn Jared’s ugly-ass ties?
Cam: We can turn it into a party. I’ll bring BBQ pizza! And tissues. And maybe those cute little paper umbrellas that make everything more festive?
Petra: Change of plans. We’re taking you out and finding you a hot piece of ass. We need a full-on, revenge sex-travaganza!
Cam: Hell yeah, I’m in! And while we’re at it, find me a man. It’s been a hot second, and this girl has needs.
Me: Guys, I’m fine! Jared needs a little space, so I’m taking some me-time to reassess.
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it’s easier than admitting I’m falling apart. I view my reflection in the dresser mirror, and honestly? I look like I just survived a three-day music festival in the desert. Not cute.
Petra: Bull. Shit.
Petra: No one’s “fine” after their fiancé goes full dickbag.
Cam: We’re here for you, babe. Whatever you need, we’re on it.
The Mission: Love and Matrimony binder mocks me from my nightstand; its pastel purple cover is a monument to my teenage delusions. Empty wine bottles are littered all around it. Those definitely weren’t there when I headed to bed, were they? After bottle number three, details are fuzzy.
Yikes, preteen Katie really went overboard with the Lisa Frank stickers. That unicorn’s judgy eyes are tracking my every move. I flip open the binder, assaulted by the pure, innocent hope of fourteen-year-old me. Each page is OCD-level organized. Apparently even my teen hormones operated on a schedule. There’s an entire section titled “Boyfriend Intimate Relations Timeline,” complete with a step-by-step guide: hand-holding by week two and French kissing by month three— if his dental hygiene passes inspection.
Okay, so teenage Katie had never been kissed.
Sex was a mystery back then. Truth be told—it still kinda is. Jared and I do it, sure, but it’s the kind of sex you could squeeze in between brushing your teeth and debating if tomorrow’s outfit needs to be ironed. Routine—like Taco Tuesday . Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I see the "Future Husband Requirements" checklist, and I feel a sharp dagger in my heart. Jared nails every single one: Reliable. Dependable. Loyal. Lets me win at Uno.
I can fix this. I will fix this.
My fingers hover over the binder’s pages. I want to rip them all out—destroy them with righteous vengeance. Instead, I calmly close the cover and set it back on the nightstand. Because what if he calls? What if this is simply a blip? A prewedding panic attack?
What if I’m lying to myself?
Cam: Just remember we love you big-time. No matter what happens.
Petra: And I’m great at slashing tires. Say the word.
A laugh unexpectedly bubbles up. God, I love them. This is why I can’t drag them into my mess. I’m the stable friend. Miss Reliable… the friend who has her shit together so they can lean on me.
Me: Love you too. But I promise, everything’s under control.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Petra: Uh-huh, sure. When you’re ready to stop living in la-la land, we’ll be here. With wine. And matches, because those hideous ties deserve a Viking funeral.
The smell of bacon and pancakes drifts into my room. Mom’s stress cooking again, her way of saying “I love you” without having to navigate the messy world of actual emotions. The familiar scent of butter, maple syrup, and concern makes my eyes sting.
“Well, winging it has never made a quality husband fall into your lap.” Mom’s voice carries down the hall, precise as a metronome. “Real men want a woman with at least a five-year plan, Deborah.”
I tiptoe toward the kitchen and freeze at the echo of Aunt Deb’s raspy laugh. Picture a classic Hollywood movie starlet but with a voice roughened by decades of whiskey and sass. It’s a sound that has church ladies scrambling for their prayer books three towns over.
“Oh Suzanne,” Aunt Deb purrs. “Your daughter’s planning obsession is not the problem. It’s how she turns every simple decision into a military operation. The poor girl probably has a spreadsheet for scheduling optimal orgasms.”
I choke on air. Really, I should expect it from her by now. Deborah Fox has lived without a filter for seventy-two years. There is no changing her.
“I’d rather have an intimacy schedule than your… what was it last month? A nude meditation retreat with those Swedish backpackers?” Mom says with a special tone reserved for when Aunt Deb’s adventures cross into too-much-information territory.
“Darling, the culture’s more enlightened there!” Aunt Deb defends. “And Gustav was a spiritual guru—realigning my chakras and my lady garden. But the point is: Katie needs guidance. No man wants a woman who requires a toolkit and assembly instructions for her vajayjay.”
“I can hear every word, you know,” I announce, shuffling into the kitchen.
Mom’s wearing her Let's Get Whisking apron and pressed khakis. She wraps me up in a hug, smelling of vanilla extract and childhood comfort. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is styled in its usual practical bob, not a strand out of place.
“Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb exclaims from her perch at the kitchen island. “Looks like someone’s been hit by the sad train and dragged through breakup town!”
She’s one to talk. The woman looks like a peacock mated with a Stevie Nicks concert—her caftan an obnoxious rainbow of jewel tones. She’s wearing enough jewelry to set off airport metal detectors, but, as usual, her strawberry blonde hair looks radiant against her flawless makeup. She’s a ball of chaotic energy and unsolicited advice (which she calls sage wisdom ).
“Thank you for that very insightful observation,” I say, dropping onto the kitchen stool with a sigh. “Exactly what I want to hear after my fiancé dumped me.”
“Dumped?” Aunt Deb straightens up like someone just insulted her crystal collection. Her blue eyes flash with indignation. “Oh no, darling. Rule number one of being fabulous: we don’t get dumped. We simply redirect our fabulousness elsewhere.”
Mom slides a plate of bacon pancakes to me. “Jared’s having prewedding jitters. You two are meant to be. But you really should go to the salon and fix up those eyebrows. You’ll want to look your best when he comes back.”
“Or. You wake up in a foreign country on top of an Italian hunk and neither of you remembers how you got there. That’s how you heal a broken heart,” Aunt Deb declares, pulling out her laptop. “Behold!” She waves her hands at the screen as if she’s a game show host.
The computer display explodes with enough Italian eye candy to put a Dolce & Gabbana campaign to shame. Images of sun-soaked vineyards and ancient ruins that make my control-freak heart skip a beat. There are pictures of charming villas with terracotta roofs, winding streets lined with cypress trees, and views that belong on postcards.
“Got this amazing deal in my inbox yesterday.” Aunt Deb clicks around on the travel website. “Monti Tours. Last-minute cancellation. It’s a steal, baby girl.”
I take a bite of my pancakes, trying to appear uninterested, but my eyes refuse to look away.
“We’ll be on a luxury bus tour. Every day we wake up somewhere new, hop on our chariot, and boom—another Italian masterpiece.” Her on-point manicured nail taps the screen. “Look at this itinerary—wine tasting in Tuscany, cooking class in Bologna, sunset boat ride in Venice. Even your spreadsheets would approve.”
Whoever snapped these photos isn’t just a photographer—they’re a storyteller. Each image is alive—like you could reach through the screen and feel the warm Italian sun on your face, taste the wine on your tongue, and hear laughter echoing off ancient buildings.
That does sound amazing. I do have plenty of vacation days.
“Two weeks touring Italy for half price! Don’t ignore the universe. It is personally demanding that you get your cute little uptight behind on that plane with me.”
She vibrates with excitement, her bracelets jingling a chaotic melody. “We’ll drink wine, eat pasta, and flirt with men named Giovanni. I tried to convince your mother to come, but she’s committed to grandma duty. Criminal, really, if you ask me.”
My mother sighs. “You know how it is with David—his job’s too important. He can’t take days off. Not when he’s so busy saving lives. Besides, he asked me months ago to watch the kids while Emma is at that medical conference.”
The mere mention of my older brother makes my skin prickle and break out in stress hives. Dr. David Crawford—handsome, successful heart surgeon—who of course comes with his doting trophy wife and two absolutely perfect children.
“The kids love spending time with Grammy,” Mom adds, her voice carrying that special warmth she reserves for all things David-adjacent. The same tone she uses when showing off his framed medical degrees to anyone who enters our house.
My mother insists she doesn’t have favorites, but anyone with eyeballs can see—it’s not me.
I stare at the travel website, at the joy and adventure playing out in sunlit Italian streets. My finger traces across an image of a couple laughing in front of the Trevi Fountain in Rome. That could be us. That should be us. I need to prove to Jared that I can be that person—carefree, spontaneous, everything he said I wasn’t.
“Deborah.” Mom sighs, flipping another pancake. “You just got back from Thailand. Don’t you want to stay home for more than ten minutes?”
“Oh Suzy Q, if I could afford it, I’d travel every single day of the year. Life’s too short to sit still!”
“I’ll go!” I blurt out, surprising myself.
“Excellent!” Aunt Deb claps her hands together. “Smallish little detail—it’s a seniors’ tour. But honey, with your affinity for sensible shoes and early bedtimes, you’ll fit right in! You’re basically an eighty-year-old trapped in a twenty-five-year-old’s body.”
Mom’s spatula clatters against the counter. “Katie, honey, this seems… impulsive.”
“Exactly.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling courageous (or maybe it’s the pancake sugar rush). “Jared wants spontaneous, so that’s who I’m going to be!”
“That’s my promising little protégé! We are gonna rage across Italy like gladiate-hers. We’ll stumble back onto the plane two weeks later with full bellies, even fuller heart boners, and a contact list full of men named Stefano.”
I did it! No turning back now.
“We leave in two days!” she adds.
Oh God. What have I done?
No. This is the plan. Jared will see my vacay pics and know that I’ve changed. He’ll be begging for me to take him back.
Spontaneous Katie is going to Italy!
Now where is my passport binder?
***
“They say it’s hard to get into the mile-high club, but honey, I’m running a loyalty program,” my aunt quips. “See any handsome devils?”
The elderly couple in 15D and E snap their heads around so fast their matching neck pillows wobble in perfect sync. I slump deeper into my premium economy seat, hiding behind my labeled Ziploc bag of artisanal snacks and disinfectant.
But Aunt Deb’s already dumped her enormous bedazzled leopard-print tote over my what-was-organized tray table. My water bottle topples. My color-coded Italy itinerary scatters. And—what is that metallic pink thing rolling toward my—
Bzzzzzzzzzz!
The lipstick-shaped device buzzes to life in my lap, apparently triggered by the impact. Except no lipstick I’ve ever owned has come with multiple speed settings.
“What in the world is that!?” I yelp.
“Oh, that old thing?” Aunt Deb’s strawberry blonde curls bounce as she beams. “She’s my real travel companion. TSA barely blinked—I told them it was a facial massager!”
It slips off my lap before I can grab it. Oh, come on!
CLINK! It hits the ground and tumbles under the seat in front of us. The buzzing sound grows more intense as it rolls to the next row of seats, like it’s actively trying to create the most mortifying situation possible.
I glance around. Maybe if I’m subtle about this…
Nope. The elderly couple is watching with horrified fascination as I slowly lower myself to my hands and knees. The airplane carpet is rough against my palms as I peer under the seats, looking for a flash of metallic pink among the forest of feet and carry-ons.
A small hand reaches out from two rows ahead, inches from the still-buzzing device. “Mom, look! A toy!”
“No!” I lunge forward, grabbing the lipstick-shaped vibrator. Holy crap, this thing is buzzing like a swarm of angry mama bumble bees. “That’s… that’s not a toy. Well, it is, but… it’s that nice lady’s toy.” I gesture vaguely toward Aunt Deb.
The child—who can’t be more than five—wrinkles his nose. “Old people still play with toys?”
“Kid, you don’t wanna know,” I mutter.
I make my way back to my seat and give Aunt Deb her overactive “travel companion.” I think my hand might be permanently numb.
“You travel with a vibrator in your purse?”
Why am I asking? This is the same woman who once led a conga line through her retirement community, wearing nothing but a feather boa and a smile. The same free spirit who got banned from bingo for suggesting strip rules. She’s my mother’s polar opposite in every way. While Mom was playing it safe in suburbia, Aunt Deb was backpacking through Nepal with a guru named Moonbeam and learning rebirthing breathwork.
“You can borrow that if you want, Katie-darling.” Aunt Deb winks, her bold blue eyeshadow somehow making her look both elegant and scandalous. “That’s my backup in-flight entertainment, and it appears I won’t be needing it tonight.”
“We’re on an airplane!”
“Exactly!” Aunt Deb’s eyes light up like someone just handed her a shirtless fireman and a cheesecake. “You’re free as a bird, baby girl. Time to spread those wings and maybe spread some other things too—know what I mean?”
She rummages more in her Mary Poppins naughty bag and pulls out a small flask masquerading as a water bottle, followed by what appears to be a Ziploc stuffed with suspicious herbs. Oh Lord, please don’t let those be actual narcotics.
“Listen here, Katie-kins,” she says, wagging her manicured finger. “Time for some ground rules for our trip. Rule numero uno: don’t cramp my style! I’m here for the three F’s: food, fun, and…” She glances at the scandalized couple across the aisle. “…becoming friendly with the locals. Not necessarily in that order.”
I watch in horror as she pulls out an entire strip of condoms. “Oh my God!”
“Honey, at my age, you’ve got to be prepared for anything. These hips might be vintage, but they’ve still got some miles left on them! Just ask that charming Argentinian tango instructor from last month’s cruise.”
The elderly woman one row over clutches her pearls so hard she’s about to have a bead-related safety incident.
“Now,” Aunt Deb continues, completely oblivious to our growing audience, “if I want to stay out late or invite a Casanova in—and I do mean in—I’ll need the room. Comprende?”
I’m reminded that this woman got escorted out of the Vatican for skinny-dipping in Saint Peter’s fountain with her tour guide. Mom still hasn’t recovered from that particular sisterly scandal—probably why she opted for babysitting duty.
“But other than that, this is our trip, darling!” She leans in close, and I smell her signature Chanel No. 5. “This is your sexual awakening! You need to go find the first Italian man who makes your lady parts tingle and let him rock your world.”
“Aunt Deb!” I sputter, my face burning. “I’m here to win Jared back, not jump into bed with a stranger!”
“Oh Katie,” she sighs. “Marriage is a prison of boredom and routines. You’ve been set free, yet you’re trying to put the shackles back on like they’re Cartier Love bracelets.”
I’m about to explain that my idea of wild abandon is ordering dessert before dinner, when Aunt Deb spots something over my shoulder and practically levitates.
“Well, hello, silver fox,” she purrs, adjusting her layers of necklaces. “If you’ll excuse me, darling, I’ve spotted a rather distinguished gentleman in business class who could use some company.”
“The seat belt sign is on!” I protest, but she’s already sashaying down the aisle like it’s a Milan runway. I’m left alone with her scattered belongings and what I’m pretty sure is enough contraband to get us arrested in several countries.
I pull out my binder and flip to my freshly written Win Back Jared plan, wishing I could ignore the fact that my seventy-two-year-old aunt packed more condoms than clothes.
Operation Win Back Jared is simple:
1. Post amazing Italian adventure photos.
2. Show how spontaneous I’ve become.
3. Make him see I’m the best thing he’s ever lost.
4. Wait for the groveling to begin.
My pen hovers over the page as I consider potential photo opportunities. Maybe something with gelato or a shot of me laughing by the Tower of Pisa—
A burst of laughter comes from business class. Aunt Deb has somehow procured a glass of champagne and is now demonstrating her yoga skills in the aisle. Damn, she’s flexible.
I turn back to my page, trying to focus. Jared’s last words echo in my head: “I can’t spend the rest of my life with a person who can never be spontaneous.”
Once again Aunt Deb’s laugh pulls my attention. This time she’s leading an impromptu salsa class down the walkway, using her scarf as a prop while her aged Adonis pulls her in and dips her.
Surely there’s some genetic material that Aunt Deb and I share—some morsel of carefree DNA that should make me effortlessly free-spirited like her. I mean, I’m on this trip without any advance notice, and that’s pretty damn spontaneous, right?
I start listing potential Instagram captions: Embracing the moment! #whimsical #ItalianAdventures #UnexpectedVacation #Serendipity!
This scheme will work.
Nothing planned here, nope, nothing at all.
***
Jet lag? More like travel-assault fatigue. My eyelids feel weighed down by tiny cement blocks, and my brain has turned into risotto. It’s early, or late, or both—who the hell knows?
But wait— Operation Win Back Jared needs its first Instagram masterpiece. I struggle with my phone, attempting to snap that perfect just arrived in Italy glow. There’s the selfie I want and the selfie I end up with, which has…
Total mugshot vibes.
My hair is staging a rebellion, and my saggy eye bags are the kind of knockoffs that even Canal Street wouldn’t sell.
I stumble off the plane, barely registering the flight attendant’s chipper “ Benvenuto to Italy!” Meanwhile, Aunt Deb dances through the Malpensa airport like she’s starring in her own travel show.
“Katie, darling, keep up!” she calls over her shoulder, as I struggle to maneuver both our carry-ons because she “simply must keep her hands free for greeting Italy properly.”
This woman has way too much energy! It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open and my feet moving. The Milan airport is a blur, a hazy mess of people and luggage, and not even a triple shot of Italian espresso can save me now.
The customs line snakes around like a drunk anaconda, but Aunt Deb somehow charms her way to the front. She’s chattering away in Italian, but I don’t know—every word sounds suspiciously made up. I hold my passport upside down against the plexiglass, my brain too foggy to function.
“Per quanto tempo si ferma?” the officer asks.
I stare at him like he’s speaking in emoji.
He sighs. “How long you stay?”
“Fourteen days,” I mumble. Actually fifteen, but day fifteen starts at four a.m., which is both inhumane and cruel, so I refuse to count it.
I’m overloaded with bags, struggling to keep up. Who knew sleep deprivation felt so much like being drunk?
I blink, and suddenly we’re outside. I hear Aunt Deb shouting, “Per favore, potete chiamarmi un taxi!”
My eyes feel full of sand. Just a quick rest, I think, leaning against my suitcase. Just five seconds …
I jolt awake in a real-life game of Mario Kart. Our taxi driver is swerving like a lunatic, as he seems to think “speed limits” are mere suggestions and “lanes” are optional. He’s zigzagging through cars, whipping around Vespas, and narrowly dodging floral roadside memorials (RIP Alberto) .
“…and that’s when I realized,” Aunt Deb says from the front seat, “you don’t need clothes for sunrise meditation! The monks were scandalized, but Kai—the divine Hawaiian Adonis that he is—declared me his muse for his book The Kama Kai Sutra .”
Oh God. Oh no. Is that her—
Confirmed: Her hand is definitely creeping up our driver’s thigh.
I’m about to close my eyes and pray for death when I witness—
A miracle. Milan is gorgeous!
Wow! Just, wow.
Row after row of rustic buildings the color of sun-toasted bread line the streets, their terracotta roofs marching toward a sky so perfectly blue it looks computer generated. Tiny bridges arch over canals that sparkle like someone dumped a metric ton of glitter into the water.
Quick, get a picture for Jar—
The taxi swerves like we’re dodging invisible missiles, then screeches to a halt. My phone goes airborne, performing a graceful triple axel before face-planting onto the floor mat.
“We’re here!” Aunt Deb announces, giving our driver’s upper thigh area (okay crotch) what I hope is a final squeeze.
As we enter the lobby, my jet-lagged brain processes the hotel’s over-the-top grandeur. The entryway is what happens when a Renaissance palace hooks up with old money and their love child gets raised by Instagram influencers. Marble floors so polished I can see my disheveled reflection staring back. Yeesh! The stunning frescoed ceilings have had centuries of housing rich people’s drama beneath them. And those cherubs painted on the walls? They’re totally judging my appearance, but all I can think is bedbedbedbedbed.
We open the door to our room, and two queen-sized pieces of heaven appear. My body, mind, and soul gravitate toward the crisp tucked corners and drool-free pillows.
“Don’t even think about it, missy. You’re not giving in to jet lag. We power through!”
“We have six whole hours until the welcome mixer,” I whine.
“Exactly!” She upends her suitcase into a clothing bomb on both beds. “Getting this level of pizazzzery takes time, preparation, and at least three different kinds of body shimmer.”
Pieces of clothing fly through the air with impressive velocity. A sequined something catches the light, temporarily blinding me.
“Options!” she announces, holding up three dresses. “This black number screams ‘seductress on the prowl,’ the red suggests ‘peel me off later,’ and this leopard print…” she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, “is a warning label that reads ’good decisions not included.’”
She zeros in on my suitcase full of snugly packed pastels like a heat-seeking missile. “Oh Katherine.” She tuts, diving in and destroying hours of careful folding. “Are you interviewing to be a librarian? Is this a cardigan convention? Where’s the sex appeal?”
“Jared likes the way I dress.”
“Honey, Jared needs a fashion intervention.”
“I’m not here to impress anyone,” I remind her for the billionth time.
“Clearly.” She holds up my modest one-piece swimsuit like it’s radioactive. “Was this suit personally designed by the Amish?”
“It’s practical!”
“So is a chastity belt, but that doesn’t mean you wear one to an Italian beach.”
She tosses the bathing suit aside with a dramatic shudder.
“I need a bath. Gotta get squeaky clean everywhere. These distinguished Italian gents aren’t gonna seduce themselves.”
I reach my hand into the pile and hold up a floral dress with a matching cardigan. “This is what I’m wearing tonight.”
“Then don’t stand next to me. I don’t want people thinking I’m here with someone’s grandmother,” she says as she saunters to the bathroom.
Screw the jet lag advice. This bed’s beckoning me like a lover’s whisper. I don’t care how I look for the stupid welcome mixer. To hell with everything except these heavenly sheets and—
“Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Aunt Deb calls from the bathroom. “We haven’t even started your underwear intervention!”
I faceplant into the pillow with a groan. Maybe if I play dead, she’ll leave me alone.
A thong hits the back of my head.
Maybe not.